The Risen
by Spike Daft
Summary: Once the taste of blood is set into the soul, it isn't easily given up. Two spirits remain after being set free, and only one young man has the power to send them back...if he agrees to help.
1. Patient 224

_On the Third day of Celebration, Adam did feast of a human heart,_

_and was thus sated of a thirst with which he had not-- _

_Until that Third day--_

_Known he was besotted._

_Thereafter the human heart became hunted_

_And, as each hunter wore the same mask as that of its' host,_

_The heart was henceforth forced into hiding,_

_Never again to step forth into light--_

_For it was through the hunters that the heart did learn _

_of Shadow_

_and so sought shelter from it as the animals sought shelter from the night_

"He doesn't talk much, so I don't know how much you'll get out of him," the nurse advised. "He certainly won't tell _us_ anything."

Brian nodded. He'd heard as much from the strange girl on the phone the night before. The call had jolted him out of a pleasant, whiskey-induced doze in front of the television. After the call he'd had another two shots, but was nowhere near sleep anymore.

As he watched the nurse's ample buttocks working beneath her blue scrub pants, him following like a glumly obedient dog, he wondered if anyone knew much more about the young man than the few facts he had been presented with on the phone the night before.

The woman hadn't given him much to go on: no known family, no leads on obtaining information such as medical records and the like. His age was suggested as mid to late twenties; younger than most of the people Brian sought. The most detailed description included medical anomalies associated in theory from a serious accident of unknown circumstances and time, causing injuries that should have left him paralyzed. Or, more likely, dead. The other information he was given by the woman on the phone was, in his opinion, best left forgotten until the time came that he needed to remember.

Despite the vague nature of Brian's quarry it seemed, for all intents and purposes, that from a simple phone-call Brian knew more than the staff at the institution that housed this young man. Surely a professional of his caliber's sudden interest in him would have been subject to better scruples if they'd known anything significant about their patient.

Significant…Like the little-known fact that said young man had been resurrected from the dead.

"Here," grunted the nurse, abruptly stopping and turning to face Brian. Her dull blue eyes looked just past him, down the hall at the clock mounted on the wall by the door. Her nametag was flecked with dried spots of what looked like coffee. It read, _Sheila Dunbarr, Senior Nurse._ Brain looked past her to the door of the patio, which stood halfway open. The patio was walled in brick on three sides. The walls were high, set with inward-curving wrought-iron bars at the top. To these bars clung razor wire, gleaming brightly in the morning sun, which ran down the legs of the white deck chairs and tables that stood bolted to the ground and puddled onto the cement. On one of the tabletops, his feet on a chair, perched a tall, lanky young man; the only occupant of the patio. His hair was very short and his head was bowed, possibly in prayer. Sunlight glowed on translucent pale skin, the white hospital-issue scrubs seeming to bleed out into the pallid flesh beyond. A cigarette in his pale fingers wisped smoke. The other hand was pressed in a fist to his temple and bore the scars of reconstructive surgery, along with a glinting sapphire ring that sunned itself on the fourth finger. Brain could not make out his features.

A voice behind him startled Brian out of a trance of which he'd been unaware. "We don't usually allow person-on-person contact with non-family members," the nurse-- Sheila-- said dully, "but he's not tended toward violent reactions. He's usually the passive type; he severs contact when he's upset. Lately he's been acting out more, though; he's been reprimanded a few times, but that's not the way he usually is. He's got no family that we know of. Hell, maybe _he_ doesn't even know." Sheila shook her head with a kind of distant pity. "If he does he's not telling. Too bad, 'cause he doesn't belong here. Frankly, he's not crazy; at least, not enough to be under the security he's subjected to in here. But we don't have anyone to release him to." Her eyes roved purposefully over his sportcoat, the credentials in his hand. "One thing, though," she said, her voice lowered, "don't touch him. No matter what."

Brian frowned, surprised. "Don't..."

"Touch him," the nurse repeated, ignoring the doctor's obvious puzzlement. There was a stain of impatience in her voice. "No physical contact. He doesn't...react well to touching. Kinda messes up the whole physical-therapy thing, but what can you do."

"You said he wasn't usually violent..."

"_Usually _he's not. Still, don't touch him." She sighed, and waved a listless hand back in the direction of the entrance door. "Listen, just sign out in the same kiosk you signed in at when you're ready to leave. Leave your visitor's pass in the yellow box on the front of the door."

With that Sheila disappeared down the hall, the _swish swish_ of starched hospital pants accompanying her footsteps on the speckled white tile. He could hear the chimes of the clock tower three streets away, ten steady notes drifting in through the half-open door. The sound was strange to Brian with the stench of sterility in his nose.

_Could've been briefed better_, he thought irritably. The girl on the phone told him next to nothing, but he could tell by the timbre of her voice that she knew a hell of a lot more than she was letting on to him. He wasn't sure exactly what to do with the sad figure on the patio, didn't know what to say. Usually the people he came to already knew he was coming, and why. He was an answer to their questions, the means to an end.

And they didn't live in mental hospitals. At least, not _before_ he visited them.

Brian took a deep breath. He suddenly felt like a fool in his sportcoat and slacks, his credentials on a glossy nameplate he now clipped to his front pocket. He looked like every other psychiatrist out there. He wondered if maybe he should have dressed differently. He knew that this guy had seen his share of shrinks in the ward, and knew also that he clammed up with every one of them; a shared tidbit from the bored looking nurse that had signed him in and squinted at his nameplate. Brian worried that appearance might sever the lines of communication before they had even started. Still, it was too late to go home and change.

_Here goes everything,_ he thought, and stepped out onto the patio. He closed the glass door behind him, thankful that it did not squeak on its tracks.

"Dennis Rafkin," he said, and the figure looked up.

2

"Dennis," Brian said again, and took a slow step foreward, hand extended. The young man's eyes widened at the hand, and Brain, remembering, quickly dipped it into his pocket instead. "I'm here to talk to you, Dennis. I'm not like the others."

A long moment of silence passed, and then the young man spoke. His voice was soft, and Brian was struck by the youth in it.

"What...did you call me?"

"Dennis," replied Brain. "That's your name, isn't it?" He kept his voice gentle, as one would speak to an unfamiliar dog.

The young man grunted and shoved the cigarette impatiently between his lips, dropping his head again. The hand he had previously held in a fist was now nearly slack, hanging between his knees, and Brian could see a string of green and black beads entwined amongst long fingers. He would not meet the elder man's eyes. "Got the wrong guy, Mister," he muttered. "Name's William Hartford. It's on the registry, if you bothered to check it."

"I didn't," said Brian, "because I know that's not your name."

The young man's head jerked up again at this admission, and Brian found himself eye-to-eye with him. Again he wondered about the validity of the nurse's claim of placidity; the kid looked to be in a serious debate over whether to run away from this new possible threat, or to simply jab its eyes out. For a while the only sound in the air was the snakelike rasp of dangling beads.

"How do you know?" hissed Rafkin, who despite the cigarette possessed even, white teeth which he bared in a snarl. "You shrinks are all alike, you know that? You think you're fucking psychic or something. A mind-reader with a degree." Rafkin stopped his tirade with a snort, merely mocking his visitor now, laughter in the strange brilliant eyes.

The psychiatrist smiled. He was aware that this was perhaps the most the young man had spoken since he had turned up in this place. His clinical brain reminded him that even this little occurrence was progress.

"You don't look like a William, firstly," he said, and ignored the derisive snort that followed. "That and someone told me your real name. Don't worry; I haven't told anyone here about it."

Narrowed eyes met his then, catching and holding him as effectively as a pin transfixes an insect. "Someone told you? Who told you?"

"A woman. She called last night. Said her name was Junie."

Dennis' eyes distant now, trying to dredge up a memory that he likely did not have. "Doesn't really ring a bell, Mister..." he squinted at the nameplate, "...Mister Dobbs."

"Call me Brian. She said you probably wouldn't remember. It was a...traumatic time."

"Oh, she said that, did she? And I assume she didn't elaborate on the subject, am I right?" The eyes were mocking him again; Brian felt a tingle of dread. Dennis himself sat extraordinarily still, as though all the life that animated his body had flown to his eyes.

"I understand that you feel defensive," said Brian. "Resurrection can take quite a toll on the mind as well as the body. Many who are brought back come into the world with a dead mind. Like zombies, without the brain-craving tendencies. You're a strong young man."

Dennis seemed at a loss for words. He took a last drag off the cigarette and tossed the smouldering butt over his shoulder. Smoke rushed from his nostrils; his fingers gripped the tabletop, knuckles straining under thin skin. He reminded Brian of an angry dragon.

"You know it's...dangerous," the young man said at length, "to be saying shit like that out here. You're in a _mental hospital_, if you haven't noticed. You looking to get a suite here yourself, talking like that?"

"This seems to be the only place where we can have relative privacy," said Brian, gesturing to the patio. "We're not exactly in a great place to be discussing anything, but it's not like we have a choice at the moment."

Slowly, Dennis Rafkin considered the man before him. At least thirty seconds passed before he spoke again. His voice sounded impossibly tired and resigned.

"Fine, whatever; I'll play," he said at last. "Let's take a walk."

Brian had not previously noticed the small path that led around the side of the building. He did notice, however, that Dennis seemed to have difficulty getting to his feet. Finally he managed to get himself upright and steady, and when he finally jerked his head at Brian, indicating that he should follow, his steps were hitched with a pronounced limp, as though he had suffered some devastating injury in the past.

_Of course he did._ Brian's clinical mind reared itself again. The older man felt a cold rush of something akin to fear as he watched Dennis make his way around the path. Everything he had been told on the phone the night before seemed true. Junie had told him that Dennis had endured a very violent death. As he watched, the sun caught a long scar on the left side of the young man's head, disappearing into the hairline.

The cold rushed again. Brian had a feeling that Junie might be able to tell him what had caused that scar. In a way, he didn't think he wanted to know.

Behind the building, past a sign that read "_Authorized Personnel ONLY Beyond This Point_", was a small greenbelt that bordered the property. A shabby tool shed sat on the outskirts of the line of trees. Dennis led Brian here, lowering himself with a small groan onto the small concrete walkway that encircled the shed. He lit another cigarette and stared up at Brian. The striking eyes were expectant.

"You wanted to talk," he said. "Now talk."

Brian took a deep breath. He had earlier considered a way to sugar-coat his reason for coming, to give it to Rafkin as gently as he could, but the effort seemed a waste now that he had met his charge. _To those who cannot taste_, he thought, _no sugar is sweet enough_.

"There's been a...problem...with some spirits. That's all I can really tell you here. Your help is needed." He took a crumpled scrap of paper from his pocket. Its surface was black with tiny writing, done in ebony ink. He handed it to Dennis, who shrunk away, eyes fixed warily on the hand holding the paper. Brian let it drop onto the ground instead, where Rafkin picked it up and studied it impassively.

"Names," the young man said. "Whoopee." His hands with their long white fingers moved to tear the paper in two.

"On that paper," Brian said, "are the names of the people who have been killed so far. Without your help I think I'll end up needing a few more pages than that."

The hands went still. Still Dennis did not look at the older man before him, but at least he appeared to be listening. "Go on."

"The spirits you were familiar with at the Kriticos house… Did you ever know what happened to them?"

"Wasn't really on my agenda, no. I was kinda busy getting used to being dead." Dennis looked up finally. His eyes were hard and humourless. "Being killed kinda…distracts a person, you know?"

"They were set free, I'm sure you know that much. Some went on to the other realm, no longer feeling the need to stay here. But there _were_ two that stayed. They tasted human blood, human fear, and didn't have to fear any consequences. As you well know, sometimes the first taste of blood is an instant addiction. These ghosts were determined to taste it again. Now many people are dead. Men, women, children. They do not discriminate when it comes to their victims. Researchers of the paranormal have swarmed all over this; we have a parapsychologist from Germany, two so-called 'psychics' from Russia. Several so-called 'ghost hunters' have gotten hold of the news; they're crawling all over it. Most are helpful; that is, they have at least something to offer toward the remedy of this problem. But no one, not even the 'psychics', can tell us where they are. We know the general area, but it means little if our radar doesn't pick up some spiritual activity."

"And which spirits would these be?" Dennis asked the question, but his expression was set in a frown that told Brian that he really did not want to know.

"The Jackal, as he was dubbed. And another, one they called the Juggernaut."

Dennis let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. "I take it that's why I'm alive."

Brian nodded, his eyes sympathetic. "Unfortunately, that was the premise of your resurrection. The people who brought you back knew about this problem far before we did, but the word never had a chance to get out. They were all killed the same night you were brought back. No one knows how as of yet. Some of the more superstitious researchers believe that they died as punishment for playing God. They brought you back through a ritual of Santeria that, until now, has been nothing but the legend of old practitioners—that and the ritual itself involved the sacrifice of some very rare animals. The point is, when they were killed you were left alone to be brought here instead of being utilized for the purpose of finding these spirits so they might be banished. At that time the victims were few and far-between. Out ghost friends were still adjusting to their newfound freedom. But I think it's safe to say they've adjusted. In the past week the death toll has risen from three to twelve. One of the people who brought you back had a sister, who had not participated in the ritual but had been told of it by her sister before she was killed."

"The woman on the phone. Junie."

Brian nodded slowly. "Junie. She called me last night, briefed me. I don't know why she chose me in particular; there are plenty of parapsychologists sniffing out this case. Either way, it doesn't matter anymore. I've been sent here because we need your help. Without it we're useless, all we can do is watch as more people are killed. We can't sense them; the so-called 'psychics' have provided us with dead leads every time. The police are no help, of course. They don't even know we're investigating this case, even though we're working practically side by side. All they can do is speculate; ghosts, of course, leave no fingerprints, tracks. No DNA. The crime scene investigators are frustrated and tired. The word with them is serial killer, of course. Some crazy Charlie Manson clone living in a junkyard, taking out the kids who hole up in their cars there at night for a little DNA swapping, if you get my drift. Night workers, too. Anyone who sets foot there takes the plunge. We can't trap the spirits for two reasons: one, we don't know where the hell they are at any given time. They wander around the general area. Two, we don't know how to contain them. The knowledge of the spells, both written and spoken, died with Cyrus. Or so we thought, until Junie called."

Rafkin absorbed this in silence. After a while he lit another cigarette. "So she knows I know the spells. She knows I can find them. That's the reason I was brought back."

"In essence, yes." The kid was sharp. Too bad for him.

"So I'm still just a tool." Dennis kept the anger from his voice, but not without effort. He sounded sad and tired, and as he struggled to his feet Brian tensed himself, prepared the catch the young man if he fell. He looked on the verge of passing out. Instead he leaned against the wall of the shed, made warm by the sun. He briefly reminded Brian of a lizard basking on a rock.

"I should've known," he said at last. "Why else would anyone bother?"

"Dennis—"

The young man pinned Brian with his eyes again. "And what if I refuse to help? If I refuse to kiss some middle-aged, overpaid shrink's ass? I'm not a fucking tool, Brian. No way. Not anymore."

Brian shrugged. "I can't make you do this. No one can, really. Even if we could, we wouldn't. You'll simply rot here until death takes you again. You need a registered mental health professional to sign you out on the premise that you're being treated on an outpatient basis. I can do that. Otherwise you stay here, in the little world that they've created for you. All white jammies and Jell-O on Tuesdays, your little patio the closest you'll ever come to the outside world. Go to sleep via a needle, wake up via another needle. No one in your world who understands you or even knows what you're capable of. We do. Your name is spoken with a lot of respect in my circle of associates, Dennis. You're not a freak in our eyes. You agree to help us, we provide you with everything you need. A place to live, a car, food, everything. You walk out of here today, right now."

Dennis smoked two more cigarettes and watched the sun travel farther into the west before he told Brian his decision.

3

Junie looked nothing like her voice had sounded over the phone. In the dim, homey lighting of the coffee shop, she looked to Brian as though she were inherently out of place in the normal world. She wore dark, earthy colors over a plump but shapely body; her hair was an unassuming brown, and she was of average height and beauty, yet for some reason every pair of eyes in the shop had not only flown to her but lingered curiously when she made her entrance.

Junie herself appeared unaffected, however; ignoring the attention her arrival had attracted she had looked straight at Brian and walked without hesitation to his table, seating herself with a curious sort of grace across the table from him.

"Brian," she said, and extended a hand. Brian shook it, feeling cool skin and power coiled through her fingers.

He kept his tone neutral. "How did you know it was me?"

Junie tapped the side of her head and smiled. "Not all psychics are as powerful as Rafkin, but it doesn't mean we can't tell a person by his appearance. Although I must say you look a bit younger than I had imagined you on the phone."

"I was half asleep on the phone," Brian reminded her. She smiled a little.

"Sorry about that. It was urgent, you see."

Brian nodded. "I suppose you're wondering what kind of an answer our young friend decided to give me this morning…"

"No," Junie said. "I know he refused. I had counted on him to refuse."

"Then why—"

"He refused _this_ time," she said firmly, cutting him off. "It doesn't mean it's his final answer. When you go back in a few days—if you agree to go back, that is-- I have a feeling our hopes might yet be rekindled. I know it doesn't seem likely to you, but you must understand that your visit this morning was the first step toward fixing this entire problem."

Brian blew on his coffee, feeling the moist warmth of it on his face as it clouded his glasses. "What makes you think he'll say yes the next time around? I explained everything to him this morning; I can't seduce him with any more new information."

"No," said Junie, "but you've put the bug in his brain, so to speak. Before your visit I doubt if he even considered that there was a way out of that place. Hell, when I think of his situation I would be surprised if he was entirely sure any given thing is his past isn't a dream. But you've made it clear to him that none of it is, and there's even a way out. I expected him to refuse our offer this morning based on the fact that situations such as these can be very intimidating to commit to. But give him a little time to think, to realize that although he'd be doing exactly what he hates doing, he'll have regained his freedom in return. The walls in that place won't look so sunny anymore when he realizes that it doesn't have to be his permanent home."

"You sound pretty sure of yourself," said Brian. His own voice sounded anything but.

Junie tapped the side of her head again and smiled. "_A robin redbreast in a cage puts all Heaven in a rage._" At his look of befuddlement she merely smiled in that calming way of hers. "William Blake. Call it intuition, if you will. The best psychic in the world would be unable to even peek into Rafkin's mind, but that doesn't mean he's immune to normal reactions to imposed situations."

"You sound like one of my college professors," Brian muttered, and they both shared a laugh. It was then that he decided he liked Junie. The irritation he had felt upon her first obtrusive phone call had all but vanished in the short time they had spoken in person. In its place was a warm, subtle feeling of trust. He felt reassured as well, knowing that she did not consider his inability to convince Rafkin to leave a failure, but merely a first step. He was a little surprised at himself when he agreed to return to the hospital the following afternoon.

He bought her a cup of coffee. It seemed to Brian that not even an hour had passed before the coffee shop was closing, the clock displaying the hour of eleven in the evening. They had discussed the situation for a while before the conversation had steered itself comfortably into talks of personal beliefs, personal lives, and personal opinions on just about everything. Their smiles were genuine. When the shop closed he walked her back to her car, and they chatted a bit more as the lights in the windows of the shops around them gradually went out.

He found himself grinning as he watched the taillights of her Mazda fade into the night.

Dennis heaved a sigh as the door to his room was first closed, then locked. True, he had been warned that this would happen if he had another little "setback", but he had never really believed they would actually take away his privileges. Usually the orderlies were cautious of him, and avoided him as much as possible. This most likely had nothing to do with respect, but Dennis liked to think it did.

He looked down at the bandages on his arms. Pristine white, perfectly equal amounts of tape and gauze. Efficient, to say the least. Maybe a little more than slightly impersonal. Just like the rest of the damn hospital, now that he thought about it.

They hadn't cared about the repercussions he would endure when they touched him. One minute he was alone, the next minute grabbed and manhandled, the metal pen-clip with its ragged edge snatched from his unresisting hand, his head screaming with images and voices, his body seizuring as cool dry hands locked around his arms and twisted them behind his back. A pale hairy arm too close to his face; a sudden and encompassing blossom of fury at being handled in such a fashion, being trapped. Biting. Bright blood and bright sunlight before darkness. From somewhere near him he heard a man curse loudly, but by then it was too dark in his mind to see who the voice belonged to.

He came to again as they were closing the door, a doctor babbling something at him as he exited. He felt the pull of medical tape on his skin; they had taken the opportunity to patch him up after he passed out, it seemed. The fury came again; not as strongly as before, but despite its unfamiliarity he did not attempt to stop his reaction to it. The glob of spit sailed through the air with astonishing accuracy, landing with a _splat_ on the doctor's right cheek. The door slammed, and in the ensuing silence Dennis could see bright spots of blood on the white linoleum floor.

_Well, I'm fucked,_ he thought. He lay down on his cot and turned to the wall, surprised at the snigger that escaped him even as he was drifting off to sleep.

It appeared that things had changed in his little world of white. He wondered if the man who knew his real name would come back.


	2. Eye for an Eye

Chapter 2: Eye for an Eye

When Brian arrived at Woodhaven four days later, Dennis Rafkin was waiting for him.

He followed a different nurse this time, to a different place. A room with nothing sharp or dangerous in any way; stark white surfaces only a shade paler than the occupant. There was a beefy-looking attendant standing dutifully just down the hall.

Dennis grinned as Brian settled into his folding chair by the cell door.

"Ah, Mr. Dobbs." He gestured around him. "Sorry for the less than sunny accommodations. They took away my big-boy privileges."

"I noticed," said Brian, glancing at the blank television screen on the wall. "The resident doctor told me you had a little trouble with…with some self-injury. I'm told this isn't the first time."

"_Mea culpa._" Dennis dismissed the topic with a wave of his hand. Brian noticed that his sapphire ring was gone.

There was another silence, broken only by Dennis' muted mutterings, apparently to himself, about the loss of his cigarettes and the loudly masturbatory mannerisms of a patient across the hall. Finally he looked up, his eyes dull and uncaring, but oddly curious.

"So," he said. "Any horrific daring-do's by our favorite dead douchebags?"

Brian hesitated with this answer. Dennis was acting quite differently than the last time they'd met; was in fact a bit put-off by the change in Dennis since the last visit, but he decided to let the topic marinate in itself for the present. For some reason when he went to answer he felt the urge to lighten his tone like Dennis had. Like he didn't really care. Brian knew better; knew the whole story of his attempt to save the Kriticos family, even if it meant sacrificing his life for total strangers.

_Two can play at that game,_ he thought.

"Oh, just a couple that hit the papers this last week," he said flippantly, and was rewarded by a glimmer of something deep in the young man's strange eyes. " Seems these guys might be taking a bit of a rest."

"Or they've skipped town to go backpacking through Europe," snorted Dennis. Brian again chafed at the indifference in his voice.

"Look, let's clarify," the psychic said, rubbing his temples. "Spirits tend to hang around one pretty specific locale. Makes 'em feel like they're defending their territory. Otherwise they wouldn't have anything to get riled up about."

"I don't understand," said Brian. He was only half-lying.

Dennis sighed and settled into his own plastic chair, and Brian thanked whatever god there was that this kid was being so candid. He couldn't help but feel that Rafkin was being extremely generous.

"Look—think about it, Dobbs," Dennis said. "Every time someone sees a ghost, a _real_ ghost, is where a death or another equally human disaster has happened. True ghosts, as opposed to mere energy signatures, are usually found in the approximate area where whatever made them suffer took place. Usually in the place of physical death, like the Anne Bolin sightings and the old greenbelts that used to be Civil War fields or the fucking Wal-Mart where so-and-so Smith shot himself during an overnight inventory. It's sure as if I told you the sun's gonna go down today."

He chuckled under his breath. "Can't guarantee that's it gonna rise tomorrow, though."

"But the reported findings are all in different locations," urged Brian. "There _has_ to be a reason why they're not being stationary."

"And you think I know."

"Not necessarily…"

"You think I can figure it out."

"Warmer," admitted Brian. "But this is an opportunity you're not going get again. You know what I can do for you in exchange for helping this case. I can get things for you, help you out; do what needs to be done. Eye for an eye. I know you're on mandatory lockdown for the next week because of, well…anyway, I can help as soon as that's lifted. Take you right out of here."

"Oh yeah?" The eyes were mistrustful but curious. "You know what you can do for me?"

"Whatever I can give you; whatever you want. Anything." The desperation ran unchecked in Brian's voice.

Dennis slowly got up, limped to his cot, and turned toward the wall. "I wanna go outside again," came his voice, now muffled, "even if they have to completely supervise it. And I want my TV back. How the hell am I supposed to keep track of 'Montel' _and_ 'Dr. Phil?'"

"Done," said Brian.

"Good," said Dennis, yawning. "Come back when they lift the lockdown. Maybe we'll just have us a little talk."

Without another word, he flapped an arm at Brian, a clear indication that their conversation, for now, was over.

As Brian turned down the hall and the door closed in Dennis' cell, he still heard the final request:

"And get me some fucking smokes, Dobbs!"


End file.
